Resident Evil: Reset
by Doc Dynamo
Summary: Albert Wesker was finished with life. Too bad life wasn't finished with him. Waking up in his 18 year old body alive and healthy, will he change his ways knowing how it all turns out in the end? Don't count on it. 1st chapter re-written.


**Resident Evil: Reset**

**I rewrote this chapter because I had a better idea of where I want to start. If anyone notices any of them dirty ol' typos let me know so I can fix 'em. I'm the tyop knig after all. . .lol. And I also had to change a date because according to the Resident Evil wiki, Wesker joined Umbrella in 1977 and the facility (wherever it was) was shut down in 1978 so that wouldn't go in accordance with my fic.**

**I'm aware of the review duplicacy thing so if it isn't too much trouble, leave me an anonymous review because I need to know if this chapter is better than the original I wrote.**

**By: **Doc Dynamo, 21/2/10 and counting.

**Summary: **After being killed in Africa, it was over for Wesker. Or so he thought. Waking up as his eighteen year old self, Wesker is given a chance to do his life all over again. Will he change his ways after knowing how everything turns out? Ha, ha, you must be joking right?

**Disclaimer: **Resident Evil and all affiliates belong to their respective owners - I make nothing from this fanfic other than satisfaction. That's not illegal is it?

**Rating: **Mild PG-13 because of violence and such. Wesker's a bad boy after all.

**Pairing: **Undecided as of yet.

**Warnings/Spoilers: **Bad language, possibly crude humor, blood and gore, and spoilers for pretty much every Resident Evil game ever made (that Albert Wesker had any part in, should I say).

**Prologue - Don't panic, but. . .you're in 1977**

A shrill ringing pierced the peaceful silence he'd been basking in like a rude and unwanted intruder breaking into his house and stealing his television.

"Ugh. . ." he groaned and reached a hand over to the source of the sound and slapped at the air, eventually succeeding in hitting the offending alarm clock making it. A dull thud followed and the clock was silenced, leaving him to lay back in peace once more.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he shot upright, entangled in bedsheets. What the hell? He looked down at himself and then at the area around him; where was he?

He was in a bed, that much was obvious, and the room that contained it was dark so he couldn't make much of anything out. Carefully disentangling himself from the sheets he got up, fumbling for a light switch anywhere. Immediately regretting turning it on because the blaring light hurt his eyes and made him flinch, he reduced his eyes to slits 'til they got used to the change in brightness.

The room was a bland shade of white, only contrast being the dark red sheets on the bed. A gold, old fashioned alarm clock lay on the floor in front of a small bedside table where he'd knocked it off and there was an open closet at the end of the room. The entire place rang out with familiarity though he couldn't put his finger quite on why.

The last thing he remembered was the volcano. . .could it be possible he'd survived somehow? And that someone had found him and taken him in?

He turned for the door that led out into an equally bland hallway, white walls and cream carpet, a sense of de ja vu overtaking him as he walked the plush walkway to a small staircase, passing an open bathroom. Descending the stairs he concluded he was alone so far as there were no lights on in the lower level and there had been no one upstairs. Flicking on another light switch he was faced with a very familiar kitchen and dining room, memories suddenly coming back to him as he took in the layout of the place, colors and placement of furniture.

It looked exactly like the house he'd had in Raccoon City nearly three decades ago; from the arrangement of rooms, tables and chairs to the very color schemes of the walls. He walked into the kitchen and saw the wine glasses stacked up next to the sink, the exact same place he'd stored them in his home in Raccoon. Everything he'd had so neatly organized, from what went in the cupboards on the walls to inside his fridge.

On impulse he opened the fridge, a cool blast of air making hm shiver as he looked inside; sure enough it was neat and tidy, things stacked appropriately on different shelves. He closed the fridge in amazement and walked into the living area, staring at the couch in the corner - the very same color and position in which it had been in his old house. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd say this _was_ his old house; but that was impossible as it had been lost with the rest of Raccoon after the nuke had come down. This was too weird. Even the back yard looked the same.

Suddenly unnerved, he made his way to the front of the house and opened the door, not sure what he was expected to find on the other side - safe to say what he saw wasn't it. His neighbourhood. The houses, cars, street lamps. . .it was all there. The sun was just coming up and the world was a light shade of pink, rays reflecting off car and house windows. A cool breeze blew in and surrounded him, the scent of fresh air, leaves and grass filling his nose. This just wasn't possible. This place had been completely destroyed. . .he'd even walked in the huge crater weeks after the nuke had been dropped.

He took a step outside, completely gobsmacked, and felt his feet - bare, he realized - step over something. He looked down and saw a newspaper slightly scrunched beneath him. Bending down and picking it up, he had no idea what the front page was going to say:

_Raccoon City Times_

_Breaking News: the criminal who broke into Maria's Jewelers last week and was apprehended has escaped from jail and is on the loose. Local authorities are on the hunt for him. . ._

His eyes were drawn from the headline to the date in the top corner; his breath hitched in his chest.

_May 3rd, 1977_

A printing error? Everything so far had pointed to the contrary. But there was no way that could be true. . .

He moved back inside the house, reading more of the article until a flashing red light got his attention. A huge brick that he could guess as a primitive answering machine lay on a table with multicolored post-it notes piled next to it. His finger pushed the button of its own accord and a fuzzy female voice spoke to him.

_"Good afternoon Mr. Wesker, my name is Eryn Lampard and I'm calling to remind you of the terms of your induction to Umbrella Pharmacutical Company tomorrow. You should have received a notification letter in the mail - blank envelope - containing everything you need to know about our company. As I'm sure you are aware, we work in strict confidence so it is advised that you destroy the letter once read. Have a good day, sir, and welcome to Umbrella."_

The phone went quiet for a few seconds before a crappy mechanical voice said:

_Message received at 2:30 pm, May 2nd 1977. End of messages._

Induction to Umbrella? How could this be possible? That message had been received yesterday which meant today was the induction. Wesker stared at the phone as though it held the answers he was looking for but of course the machine could only serve to confuse him further. His brilliant mind began to whir: May 3rd, 1977. He remembered that day clearly as it was the day he'd joined the compnay that had both given him the boost he needed to both realize and take action upon his goals, and handed him the shovel to finish the grave it had already dug for itself.

Dropping the paper as realization came with thought he bounded back up the stairs and into the open bathroom, flying straight to the mirror and stopping as he took in his reflection; he didn't look the same. While taking his surroundings in was a task enough, he hadn't lent a piece of his mind to thought about his own appearance.

His body was thinner, leaner than it used to be. He looked wirey rather than the broad muscles he'd been in possession of once before. Not to mention his face; young, his skin was smooth and suffered none of the weathering that inevitably came with age - genetic super-human or not. But his eyes, they were what stopped him dead. Instead of the fiery red he'd expected he saw wild bluish-green staring back at him. he hadn't seen that color in a long time.

That could only mean one thing, as the virus he'd been infected with in the Mansion had permenantly and irreversably altered their pigment: he was human again. And with the thought came the after effects; he _felt_ human. He felt weaker and his body felt unused, stiff and restricting in a way. He'd always thought he'd forgotten how it felt to be human but the various aches he felt in places like his joints were all too familiar. 1977. . .that made him eighteen. He sure looked eighteen, but that was impossible. People didn't de-age, and his next birthday that had been coming up would have been his 50th. But looking at himself now. . .

He splashed some water on his face and felt the cool refreshing liquid on his skin; there had to be some sort of explanation for this. He'd read before that sometimes in extreme situations of pain and near death, people's consciousness' could revert into themselves and submerse the person in memories as their minds' way of protecting them. Could that be what he was experiencing? Could it be that somehow he was still in the volcano, somehow surviving and his mind was protecting him in such a way? But then, if that were true, would he be conscious of this fact? Should he have memories of beforehand? He didn't think it worked that way but even so, if it were the case, why had his mind brought him to this memory?

A lot of questions without logical answers and as much as Wesker hated logicless situations, he knew that panicking would serve him no purpose. Besides, he didn't _panic. _Only weak minded individuals would panic and he wasn't one of them. He was strong minded and thinking through things was the only way to solve them, and that's exactly what he would do. Whatever his situation was, whether it was a memory he was submersed in to protect his mind or something else entirely, he wouldn't find out by standing in the bathroom all day.

No. . .a wry smirk filtered its way onto his face, looking strange in the mirror. He'd have to go to 'work' and see for himself. His first day all over again, nonetheless. Weird.


End file.
